Believe
by Dramatricks
Summary: Written for a prompt on LJ.  "If you die young, you won't have to deal with the pain of being forgotten."  Rachel decides that her life is no longer worth living.  Who knew Santana would be the one to help her pick up the pieces?


Three words.

They were just three words, common in the English language. When put together, they made an even more common statement, one heard across the world on a daily basis. If you were a criminal, those words were the ones you wanted to hear, your get out of jail free card. If you were a victim of an act of senseless violence, or an act that had occurred every day since you'd married the fool, those were the words you wanted to hear – validation, value, proof.

If you were a Cheerio accused of only being in Glee because of the machinations of one Coach Sue Sylvester, those were the words you never expected to hear, from the last person you expected to say them.

_I believe you_.

Followed by a soft "Thanks," and an embarrassed smile.

Santana Lopez didn't know it at the time, but those three words would soon come to unravel her life.

* * *

There are certain types of news that never should be relayed by text message.

Breakups were one, even though it was becoming notoriously common in the halls of William McKinley High School. News of being fired from a much-needed job, perhaps. Britney had told K-Fed by text message that she was filing for divorce, but maybe they hadn't really counted as a couple anyway. A marriage proposal by text is perhaps not the way to go.

News that someone has just tried to commit suicide is best told in person. Unfortunately, tact is often lost on sixteen-year-old girls.

Her phone buzzed at 9:45 a.m. on a Saturday, and she was pissed, because she'd been having a _very nice_ sex dream, thank you very much, even though all she could see in her partner was brown hair. Santana growled in frustration and flailed for her phone. Finding it on her bedside table, she flipped it open.

**Rachel tried to kill herself last night. – Q**

Two slashes, one on each wrist, none of them actually deep enough to do the damage Rachel wanted, Quinn explained to the group, as they met up in Schuester's apartment. She hadn't left a note, any real explanation, just a piece of crumpled-up paper, with a tiny star in the upper left corner, and one sentence hastily blocked out in the middle.

**No one really wants me here anyway.**

She was okay, physically, just weak from the blood loss. She'd be in the hospital for another night before they moved her to a psychiatric facility, and she'd be there for at least a week, until the doctors determined she was okay enough to not harm herself again.

"So," Quinn finished up with a sigh, "If we want to visit her, we'll have to do it tonight or tomorrow morning."

They all agreed they'd leave together from Schuester's apartment, and only go in two at a time, so as not to bombard Rachel. All of them wanted to at least let her know that they were glad she was still alive, but Santana suspected they also were like rubberneckers at a car wreck: wanting to see the grotesque, revel in it, and thank god it wasn't them.

She was having no part of it.

She got up and put on her Cheerios jacket, making for the door, only stopping when she saw the entire club's eyes on her.

"What?"

"I know you don't like her," Finn said with an edge to his voice. "But could you just put the crap away for like, a day? For Rachel? Come on, Santana."

"Fine," she growled, and sat back down, rolling her eyes for emphasis, but not really feeling it.

"I think it's my fault," Quinn said as they drove to the hospital.

"Why?"

She glanced over at Santana. "Two days ago Rachel told me that she was gay, and that she had a crush on a girl."

The news that Berry batted for the other team didn't surprise Santana, even if she was intrigued by who the shorter girl might have a crush on. She knew it'd be Quinn. It _would_ be poetic justice, for Rachel Berry to fall in love with her former worst enemy.

Quinn caught Santana's smirk, and nodded. "She didn't exactly say it but, I knew it was me. And I kind of… flipped out."

"What did you do?" Brittany asked from the backseat.

"I told her that I wasn't like that, and that I would never like her that way." Quinn shook her head, a few tears coming to rest on her cheeks. "And then I told her that I didn't think anybody would like her that way, since she… looked like a yeti."

Santana turned away and stared out the window, wondering why she suddenly wanted to slap Quinn for dishing out the same insult that Santana herself had given Rachel, just a week ago.

She waited with the others in the hallway of the hospital, hating it; hating the way it looked, bright lights white and blinding, hating the way it smelled, like disinfectant and old people and _death_. One of Rachel's dads came out and took them into the room, one at a time, because they were unwilling to leave their daughter alone with _anybody_ in that club.

Santana could see the blame in their eyes, and for once in her life, she was ashamed.

She considered bolting when at last it was her turn, and Rachel's dad looked at her with an expression of hurt and contempt, and she couldn't fault him for any of it. _You're badass_, she told herself. _You can handle this._ She walked in, slowly.

When Rachel saw her, she sighed, and Santana did the same, because she could see the bandages, wide and thick and on both forearms. Rachel was so small, she's always been little, but Santana thought she looked like a baby in that huge bed with a hospital gown clearly two sizes too big and tiny hands trembling in her lap.

And then Rachel did the unthinkable.

She asked her dads to leave her alone with Santana.

They left with protests on their lips, but they did leave, and Santana shot Rachel an incredulous look.

Rachel shrugged, gesturing to the orange chair next to her bed, inviting her to sit.

It was against her better judgment, but Santana sat. "So…" She stopped there, unsure of what to say.

Rachel shook her head. "Please don't tell me anything like 'I care about you, I'm glad you're here, it's all going to be okay.' Because I don't want to hear it."

"Okay," Santana said, understanding. She didn't know if it was going to be okay, anyway. "But just so you know," and she almost stopped herself, not wanting to even hear herself say it, "I do care about you."

Rachel looked at her with the same gaze that she had at Sectionals, and then said, "I believe you."

Santana didn't know why she wanted to grin like a stupid idiot at that, so she just kept quiet and fidgeted.

"I'm scared."

She looked at Rachel, who did, in fact, seem terrified – an emotion foreign to the both of them, Santana thought.

"What are you scared of?"

"Going to the hospital. The other one."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I would be too. But, it's only for a couple of days, right?"

Rachel nodded. "Plus I get two phone calls a day," she said, trying to inject some hope into her voice, and failing. "So I can call my dads and then… well, call my dads again, I guess." She glanced at the window. "I don't have anybody else to call."

"You could call me."

Santana felt like slapping herself as soon as the words issued from her lips, because damn if Rachel's head hadn't shot around like she'd just heard she'd won the lottery. She didn't _like_ Berry. She didn't _want_ Berry to call her.

It was one of Santana's stupidest moments.

But Rachel just nodded slowly, and Santana fidgeted again.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Why'd you do it?"

Rachel smiled, just a little, but it was there, and Santana felt a curious skip in her heart, so she coughed.

"You're the only one who asked me that. I knew you'd be the one who wouldn't treat me like a piece of glass. It's why I wanted to talk to you alone."

"'Cause I'm a badass," Santana said, a bit of the old smirk coming back to match the pride in her voice.

"Yeah, you are."

"So why?"

"If you die young, you won't have to deal with the pain of being forgotten."

Santana's mouth dropped open, feeling a clench in her gut that she'd never felt before, and she struggled to maintain her composure. "Well, yeah, but, there are a lot of things that you should want to live for," she said hastily, thinking that isn't that what you're supposed to say to a person who wants to die?

Wanted to die, and had failed, miserably.

Rachel gave Santana a withering look, and she almost cried, glad that at least The Look was still there, that Rachel hadn't completely slipped away.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Santana said, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Like… love, I guess. Fucking fluffy kittens and rainbows, or Barbra Streisand and Broadway…. You should really ask Brittany, she's the one who's good at all this sappy shit."

To her surprise, Rachel laughed, a real laugh.

Santana allowed herself to laugh, too. Just a little bit. She did have an image to keep up, after all.

* * *

Her phone rang at 3:45 p.m. on a Wednesday, but she didn't recognize the number. She answered it anyway.

"Hello?" Her breathing was ragged, the word was barely pushed out; they were on a break from Cheerios practice for a few minutes.

"Santana?"

Her eyes widened. "Rachel… hey. Um… how are you?"

"I'm all right."

"That's good." She glanced around, her gaze coming to rest on Quinn, who was just staring at her. She narrowed her eyes.

"How are you? You sound a little… busy? I'm sorry if I called at a bad—"

"No, it's okay, Rachel," she interrupted, and she meant it. "I'm just on a break at practice, so I'll have to go in a minute, I'm sorry. Are you… are you doing all right, are they treating you nice there? 'cause, you know, I'll kick their asses if they're not."

"Would you?" Rachel asked, a note of amusement in her voice.

"Damn right," Santana said, feeling her muscles tense with her bravado. She groans inwardly when Coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of break. "Rachel, listen, I gotta go, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine, Santana. Thanks for talking to me."

"Sure, no problem. You can, uh, call me again sometime if you want?"

She was going soft over _Rachel Berry_. Santana sighed at herself.

But Rachel sounded _happy_ when she said she would, and fuck it, if it kept the girl from trying to off herself again, she could call Santana every minute of every day if she wanted.

* * *

"It certainly isn't like _Girl, Interrupted_," Rachel complained, with an adorable (Santana winced at herself) whine to her voice. "I was really hoping to find at least some semblance of romantic drama out of this whole ordeal."

Santana shook her head, moving to recline against her pillows, her feet flat on her bed with her knees up.

"You're crazy, Berry."

"Well, I'm in the right place then, aren't I?"

They laughed at the vulgarity of it, but when Rachel spoke again, her voice was anguished.

"You know what the worst part of it is?"

"What?"

"They want me to be happy that I'm alive. But… I don't know which is worse: being dead, or, being alive knowing I've failed at something yet again."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad that you failed at _that_, Berry," Santana said, wondering why the hell her eyes were watering so badly. Fucking allergies.

* * *

"You're coming home _tomorrow_

?"

If Rachel thought anything was odd about the absolutely joyful tone in Santana's voice, she didn't mention it, simply saying, "Yep. I've been deemed fit for normal society, since they think that I will not a, try to hurt myself again, or b, take an axe to anyone else. Although I reserve the right to renege on that part of the deal, where Puck or Finn or Quinn are concerned."

Santana's lips curled into a snarl at the mention of her captain's name. "Yeah, Quinn told me what happened before you… well, before." There was silence on the other end of the phone. "Rachel?" She panicked when there was no response. "Rachel, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"What did she tell you?"

Santana let out a relieved breath. "She just said that you told her you were gay, and that you had a crush on her, and that she… wasn't nice to you."

"That's an understatement, as always," Rachel said dryly. "I have to go, it's time for group. I'll see you at school on Monday?"

"You're coming back that soon?" Santana asked incredulously.

"I need a couple of days to adjust to being back at home, my dads say, but, yes. My psychiatrist is encouraging me to get back to my normal routine, start enjoying myself again. Plus, I haven't sung in _two weeks_. I need to get back to glee."

"You're coming back to glee?"

"Santana Lopez, if I didn't know any better I'd say that you didn't want me to come back."

"I do!" she spluttered. "I'm just… glad, that's all." She couldn't understand _why_ she was glad – she hated Rachel Berry.

A pause, then a soft chuckle.

"I believe you."

* * *

To reasons not even known to herself, Santana chose to post herself just inside the front doors of William McKinley High School that morning, waiting for Rachel. If there was one thing Santana knew, it was that that school could be _brutal_ – she'd even dished out some of the brutality. She didn't want Rachel to be slushied on her first day back after having nearly killed herself.

She was glad she made that decision, though, because Rachel stepped out of her dads' car apprehensively, looking around as they led her inside the school. She was wearing a sweatshirt, even though it was almost ninety degrees outside, and Santana felt a peculiar lump her throat.

Rachel was hiding the scars.

Rachel's dads regarded her curiously when they came in the door, but Rachel shot her a warm smile. Impulsively, Santana reached out and squeezed her hand. "If you need anything today," she whispered into her ear, "You know how to find me."

Rachel grinned. "Bat signal?"

Santana grinned back. "Fuck bats, I'm a panther, baby."

Five minutes later while walking down the hall she would realize that she had just called Rachel Berry "baby."

She found that she didn't give a shit.

* * *

Rachel looked like a deer in the headlights, caught in the middle of the crowd that was glee club, all of them clamoring to hug her and talk over-excitedly about just how _glad_ they were that she was back, and that they couldn't _wait_ to hear her sing a solo again (that had earned Kurt a "what the fuck?" look from Rachel, and Santana was curiously proud), and blah blah blah until Santana noticed that Rachel was starting to look panicked and so she stood up.

"All right, everybody, back off and give the midget some air, would you? You know she's got to work twice as hard to get it from down there."

She sat back down, arms crossed over her chest and head held high, trying not to smirk at the adoring look Rachel was now shooting her way.

Rachel's voice was thin and raspy, but at least she _sang_. And somehow there ended up being tears in everyone's eyes, at the small girl in front of them, trying desperately to reclaim the one thing that had held her strong, through all the torment, all the slushies, all the abandonment from boys and torture from the fucking _cheerleaders from hell_.

Except Santana. Santana Lopez did _not_ cry.

Fucking allergies.

* * *

Rachel cried though, in the bathroom where she thought no one would bother her.

The same bathroom that Santana was forced to use in between 2nd and 3rd period, because there was just no _time_ to use the other one, and so she huffed as she used the palm of her left hand to _slap_ the door open, because she was Santana fucking Lopez and she did not walk into a room, she _owned_ it.

But then there was Rachel, staring back at her in shock that she had been discovered with wet tissues fisted in her hands and tears, and Santana didn't feel quite as badass as she had felt thirty seconds ago.

"Rachel… _necesita ayuda_?"

Rachel shook her head. "_Por favor, dejeme_."

"No," Santana strode forward, stopping in front of her. "I will _not_ leave you alone. What's wrong?"

She let out a gasp of surprise when Rachel launched herself at her, and Santana weakly wrapped her arms around the smaller girl.

"It's just so hard," Rachel sniffled. "Everyone treats me like I'm some kind of a freak, which, yes, they treated me that way before, but now it's so much _worse_ because no one will really even talk to me, and all I want is a _friend_, and…"

"Hey, hey," Santana stopped her, pushing Rachel away gently and reaching up to brush the tears away with her thumbs. She grinned stupidly, because she was just thinking how_ nice_ it was to have Rachel in her arms, but, no, no, must shove those thoughts down.

"I'll be your friend, _querida_."

Rachel regarded her suspiciously. "You hate me. Why would you want to be my friend?"

Santana sighed. "Yeah, well, people have their moments of insanity, and other people are better off if they take advantage of those moments, because it's a onetime thing, ya know? Besides, hanging out with you can't be all _that_ bad. I don't do musicals, though."

"You're in _glee_, Santana."

"We all have our crosses to bear."

"You're weird," Rachel said, but she was smiling.

"So I've been told," Santana said, slipping her arm around Rachel and leading her out of the bathroom – totally forgetting why she had gone in there in the first place, which resulted in a very anxious third period.

That night, she dreamed again, and this time, it was Rachel she saw, and it was Rachel's lips she felt pressing against hers.

She woke up, rolled over, and groaned into her pillow.

* * *

"I'm still damaged," Rachel said, picking at the stray threads on Santana's bedspread.

"We all are, though," Santana cocked her head. "In some way or another. Aren't we?"

"How should I know? I'm not a psychiatrist, Santana."

"You've _been_ to enough of them," Santana snorted, but the laughter died on her lips when she saw Rachel regarding her with a curious expression. "Rachel, I didn't mean—"

"Why do you joke with me about it?" Santana stared at her, not comprehending. "No one else will joke with me about it; they all treat me like I'm… broken."

Santana sprawled out on her bed, resting her head on the pillows and looking up at the ceiling, her skin shivering a little when Rachel laid down next to her, their arms just barely touching. Rachel was back to wearing short sleeves again, and even though Santana winced to see the deep and reddened scars, she was glad Rachel wasn't hiding them anymore.

"It's not that you're broken," she began, trying to find the words. "It's like… my mom had this china cup once, that her grandma had given her. The only one that her grandmother had left, because the rest of the set got lost when the family emigrated. So my mother loved that cup. And then one day, my brothers and I were roughhousing, and… I hit the cup and knocked it off the table."

"Oh, no," Rachel said sympathetically.

Santana nodded. "I bawled like a baby, 'cause I just knew I was going to get the shit beat out of me. My parents were the spare the rod, spoil the child type," she added hastily in response to Rachel's horrified look. "So anyway, when my mom got home from work I was still crying, 'cause I thought for sure, you know."

"So what happened?"

Santana smiled at the memory. "My mom looked at the cup, looked at me, snotting all over the place like some wuss, and she went and grabbed some super glue and some newspaper. We sat at the table and piece by piece we put that fucking cup back together. Cracked and everything. And my mom looked at it, and she said that sometimes, fragile things are more beautiful when they've been put back together."

Santana glanced over at Rachel, surprised to see tears in her eyes. She reached over and covered the girl's hand with hers. "You'll find someone to love the cracks, Rachel. I promise."

* * *

Three days later, Coach Sylvester gave up on practices, and it looked like the Cheerios would be missing Nationals. That was enough to set Santana on edge; she _needed_ Nationals for the scholarship.

But then, those same three days later, Quinn let it slip that Rachel and her dads were moving to Columbus, having decided that Rachel needed a fresh start.

She was glad that she had the tissue box in her locker, because, allergies. Stupid allergies and their stupid watery eyes and their stupid stuffed-up nose and… _fuck it_.

Fuck Mr. Schuester and his asking if she was okay. No, she wasn't okay; Rachel was _leaving_, and she couldn't figure out why she even _cared_.

Santana Lopez slid down until she reached the floor, leaned against a locker, and cried.

For the next two days, Santana ignored Rachel. No more walking to class, no more answering text messages, no more sitting next to her in glee, no more late night phone calls.

Nothing.

Rachel was _leaving_, and Santana didn't want to care, but she _did_, and since Rachel was fucking _leaving_, it was best to get all the maudlin, emo Evanescence shit out of her system while she could.

But good _goddamn_ Rachel kept looking at her like a puppy that has just been kicked, and Santana couldn't get the dreams of soft brown hair and sparkling brown eyes and tender pink lips out of her mind, and when Rachel was looking at her like that with those same lips that were now trembling, Santana no longer felt like a badass.

She just felt like an ass.

She turned away from Rachel, feeling the other girl's wounded eyes boring straight into her.

* * *

"What is your _problem_, Santana Lopez?"

It was followed by a stomp, and Santana groaned, turning around and leaning against her car, tucking the keys back into her pocket.

"You're leaving," she said coldly, her chin lifted in defiance.

"Oh, don't give me that head-bobbing shoulder thing like I've just sang a song proclaiming my undying love for _Mercedes_," and Santana had to fight to keep from bursting into laughter. Luckily, she was mad, even if Rachel looked damn gorgeous in that black skirt and white shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to show her collarbone and…

"Besides, what do you care?"

"Why are you leaving?"

Rachel sighed and leaned against the car, next to Santana, who swallowed at the sudden rush of heat that crept through her at the closeness.

"I don't have friends here, Santana, except for you. Which I'm grateful for, by the way, no matter how absolutely shocked I was that _you_ wanted to be friends with _me_."

Aren't I enough? Santana wanted to ask, but didn't. She knew the answer was no. It had always been no, with everybody. With Finn, with Puck, with Brittany. She would never be enough for anybody.

"And I just thought that maybe if I went to another school, maybe things would be better. Maybe I'd fit in better. Maybe I'd have more friends. Maybe… somebody might love me."

And that was the crux of it, the reason for the three-inch long scars on Rachel's wrists. The reason why, she had told Santana, she spent three days on the computer beforehand, researching the best way to do it, the most effective way to just… get it done. It was sick and it was wrong and it hurt Santana's heart, but she understood.

But then again… maybe that had been why Rachel had failed. Maybe wanting somebody to love (and here Santana's head decided to hum a few bars) was the reason the cuts hadn't been deep enough, why Rachel was still here in the hot Lima sun, leaning against Santana Lopez's car and looking at her, really looking at her.

"What if I don't want you to leave?" Santana blurted suddenly.

"I can understand that, of course, we're friends. But we can still be fr—"

"No!" Rachel blinked, once, twice, and Santana cursed inwardly, forcing herself to gentle her voice. "No, Rachel. That's not why I want you to stay." She clenched her fists and looked around, half hoping that someone she knew was coming her way and could send her into silence, saving her from making a fool of herself.

"Look, Rachel, I don't know what it is, but… I like you."

"I like you, too."

"Ugh!" Santana threw up her hands in frustration, then turned to Rachel. "Listen to me, Berry, for once in your obnoxious life, listen to someone else besides yourself. I _like_ you. Not in the oh let's be friends way. Not in the hey let's hang out and go to the mall way – although frankly you could use a trip to the mall for some new clothes."

Rachel tightened her lips, arms coming to cross over her chest as she glared at Santana.

_Fuck_. She was usually smooth. This was not working.

Santana sighed, running a hand through her ponytail. "I like you," she said again. "I like you in the you're Rachel Berry and I'm Santana fucking Lopez so this totally shouldn't work but I really like you way. In the I want to hold your hand as we walk down the hall way. In the… _girlfriend_ way, for god's sake. But I know you like Quinn, so I don't—"

"Santana." Rachel reached out and took her hand, momentarily stunning the girl as she took in the warmth, the way those dainty little fingers entwined with hers and squeezed gently.

She looked at Rachel, who was smiling faintly.

"Santana," she said again. "Quinn assumed that I was talking about her that day because, well, Quinn always assumes that she's the one everyone wants." Rachel stepped forward, her face mere inches from Santana's. "I don't like _Quinn_. Quinn is not the girl that I have a crush on."

"Oh," Santana said weakly, distracted by Rachel's face near hers and Rachel's hand still holding hers tightly. She glanced down. Rachel's hand… in _hers_…

"Oh!" Santana said stupidly (She realized that rendering her to idiocy was a talent of Rachel's, not that she minded).

"We, ah, we'd be good together," Santana offered. "I mean, I practically own this school now that preggo's in charge, and I know we're both the most fucked up students here, we could be like the power couple of fucked upedness, or something, but I—"

Rachel pressed her finger to Santana's lips, and good _god_ Santana Lopez does _not_ swoon but she'd make an exception if Rachel would just do that one more time, please and thank you. She knew she was smiling like a massive dork but she didn't care, because the next thing she knew, it wasn't Rachel's fingers on her lips but Rachel's mouth, kissing her gently and tentatively, then backing away, a shy look on her face.

Girl actually scuffed the asphalt with her shoe, and Santana knew: she was a goner.

And for the second time in just a few weeks, Santana didn't give a shit.

Because Rachel wasn't leaving, she wasn't leaving Lima.

Instead, she was walking back inside William McKinley High School, back towards the glee room, with scars on her wrists and in her heart, but Santana's fingers gently squeezing hers; and Rachel laughed loudly when Santana casually remarked that, you know, maybe fluffy kittens and rainbows weren't so bad after all.

"I believe you," Rachel said, and Santana grinned, kissing her on the lips just before they entered the choir room.

That damn owl sweater, though, that was another story.


End file.
